Undisclosed Desires
by hedgehogandotter
Summary: An overdose of nicotine is all that's needed for Sherlock to pour his heart out to John. Of course this results into some interesting scenarios... Was that kiss from last night a mistake? Overdose in nicotine and in fluffyness. Beware... Rating gone up to M just to be sure.
1. Tease me

**Warning: Not much. You might die of fluff, though.  
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. They all rightfully belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the modern adaptation to the ever so brilliant Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. Sadly, I do not even own the title. Bless the world for such geniuses!**

**This story is inspired by a song called "Undisclosed Desires" by Muse.  
**  
**_I want to reconcile the violence in your heart  
I want to recognise your beauty's not just a mask  
I want to exorcise the demons from your past  
I want to satisfy the undisclosed desires in your heart_**

* * *

Sherlock lay on the sofa, his entire body stretched out in a nicotine-induced haze. Five patches covered the limp arm that hang beside him, the tips of his long, pale fingers almost reaching the floor. His silky blue dressing gown hang loosely around him, not matching with the neat purple coloured shirt, worn with the equally neat black trousers. Sherlock's long, lean body was too long for the small sofa and his bare feet stuck out the end. He wriggled his toes and sighed deeply. The arm that wasn't hanging by his side as if all its bones had disappeared moved from the backrest of the sofa to his forehead, brushing the untidy curls from his eyes. Not that it really made a difference anyway; Sherlock had his eyes closed, and his arm dropped to his side again like a ragdoll. His face was calm and unmoving, he was breathing through his nose and his full lips were relaxed, though the same could not be said for the slight frown that crossed his forehead.

Lost in thought and nicotine, the consulting detective had lain there all day. Nothing exceptionally interesting was going on anyway; on a criminal scale, London was quite peaceful, Mycroft couldn't be bothered to have an argument with, what with all his governmental business, and even John was away from Baker Street.

Sherlock scoffed. John was his flatmate, weren't flatmates supposed to entertain each other? Now here he was, all alone in their flat – _his _flat, Sherlock still thought, even though they shared the rent – and he was utterly bored. Around noon he had walked up to his desk, consumed with boredom, and opened the drawer in which he kept his nicotine patches. He'd needed something, _something, _to keep himself from going mad. He'd begged John once for his cigarettes, he was beside himself due to lack of stimulation.  
_  
I've never begged for mercy in my life.  
_  
Sherlock scoffed again. If anyone was a match for Sherlock Holmes, John Watson was certainly it. Not even Mycroft could restrain him entirely, and he had a secret service.

Anyway, Sherlock had pulled one patch out of the little box and slowly peeled the bit of paper off the sticky side, almost savouring the moment before he slapped it to the skin of his pale forearm. The slight feeling of the nicotine spreading through his body was not enough and in desperation Sherlock had fished another patch out of the box and stuck it next to the first one, after quickly removing the sticky-side-paper. Again, Sherlock felt unsatisfied and soon there were three more patches covering the white, marble skin of his long forearm. Sherlock dragged his eyes across it, inhaling deeply through his parted lips, and thought of the fascinating contrast between the skin-coloured patches and his more than pale arm. Those patches were supposed to be around the same colour, but they were clearly visible on Sherlock's white skin.

John had told him the day before that he liked Sherlock's skin. John had also told him that he liked the pink colour on his cheeks, which Sherlock had gotten because of that first comment. Sherlock had frowned and touched his cheekbones with his equally pale fingers and was surprised to find that his face was a bit warmer than usual. John had chuckled at Sherlock's look of confusion and told him that such a response was normal to a compliment. But Sherlock was not entirely sure it had been the compliment, nor was John. In fact, John had smiled broadly and blushed himself when Sherlock started to inspect his arms and his face.

'Sherlock, you can trust me on my word when I say that your skin is quite beautiful,' John muttered from behind his newspaper. Sherlock stood in front of the mantelpiece, inspecting his face in the mirror. 'In fact, the rest of you is not so bad either.'

Sherlock opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He looked at his reflection and saw his own baffled face. He looked ridiculous. He closed his mouth and tried to speak, stupidly. He didn't know what to say though, and he turned to John with a deep frown between his eyes. 'Are you serious?' he ended up asking. _Are you serious? What are you, a fifteen year old schoolgirl who's just been asked for the dance? Great going, Sherlock. Now he'll think you feel flattered._ Sherlock's eyes narrowed. But he did feel flattered; blood had definitely rushed to his face and coloured his cheeks, and his heart rate had increased slightly. Not that he had never felt flattered before – John had complimented him dozens of times at a crime scene. _But this is not the same, we're not at a crime scene. He's complimented me about my appearance. And I liked it. _

Sherlock suppressed the urge to groan. This was not good.

'Yes, I am serious.' John's voice sounded perfectly steady behind his newspaper. Sherlock wanted to see if his face was as steady as his words, but decided against slapping the newspaper out of his hands. Instead, he moved around John's chair, around the newspaper, but John beat him to it. He closed the paper and threw it down onto a side table. 'For God's sake, Sherlock, we're grown men – certainly I can tell you you're attractive! Don't make such a fuss about it.'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He knew what John was trying to say, but he didn't agree with it; he certainly did not think that he was handsome or attractive, as John had put it. Sherlock felt his face get hotter again as he contemplated about John's words.

The Sherlock on the sofa re-contemplated about them again and he felt the blood rise to his brains. John thought he was attractive – _me? Sherlock Holmes the consulting detective, (high-functioning) sociopath? And John thought he was... John, who didn't look so bad himself... _Sherlock moaned. No, no, no; this was not going the right way! What he had done last night was nothing more than a simple act out of instinct.

'Yes, you can tell me that I am...' Sherlock had not been able to mutter the word. He had taken a step closer to John. 'I don't mind, even if I have to disagree with you. I think those words are more in order if they are said the other way around.'

John had paled and immediately flushed. The dark colour of scarlet on John's cheeks made Sherlock smile and before he knew it, he had placed his right hand on John's cheek. His voice was croaky when he spoke. 'Sherlock, are you saying that _I_...' His voice trailed off when Sherlock's thumb started stroking his lips and his breathing became unsteady. 'Sherlock –' he managed to squeak out before the detective leant forward and joined his thumb with his lips. It was a gentle kiss for which neither of them had been prepared. John was more turned on by Sherlock's soft lips than he'd ever admit and he kissed back, which made Sherlock realise what he was doing. John suppressed a grunt when the tall man with the beautiful skin and elegant features pulled back from him and opened his eyes – he hadn't realised he'd closed them. A hesitant smile formed around his lips, but Sherlock looked stricken and he quickly backed off.

'Sherlock?' John asked, concerned about his friend. Sherlock looked like a deer captured by the headlights of a car, standing rigidly still in the middle of the living room, eyes wide with disbelief – and fear. When John made the slightest move towards him, Sherlock's whole body trembled and he jerked backwards. 'I'm sorry, John,' he whispered hoarsely. He then retreated to his bedroom, without looking behind him.  
Sherlock rubbed his eyes with the mouse of his hands. His mind had landed on _this _topic again. He stretched again and exhaled dramatically.  
_  
Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side...  
_  
Oh, how he hated himself.  
Sherlock was still sulking over his own misery when he heard the key turn in the lock downstairs. The unsteady steps on the stairs told him it was John. _Unsteady – limp's back, at least partly. Took his time from the door-opening to the stairs. Clearly he's uncomfortable about something – Oh. _

Sherlock's mind entered a state of panic. What would John say? Would he be mad, or hurt, would he hate Sherlock?

Sherlock moaned – not because of John, but because the amount of adrenaline that shot through his body mixed up with the unhealthy dose of nicotine and suddenly, Sherlock felt sick to his stomach.

'Sherlock!' Sherlock heard John gasp from the doorway. He heard the quick stumble of John's feet – the limp had magically disappeared – and seconds later he felt John's warm hand on his sweaty forehead. 'What have you been doing?' Then, John noticed the patches on his arm. His dark blue eyes grew wide and he shook Sherlock by his tense shoulders. 'Sherlock, for God's sake, five patches? What were you thinking? Get up, get up, I'll make you feel better. This is not good, Sherlock. Three patches at the most, remember?'

'Nrghhh,' Sherlock mumbled as John lifted him up, so he sat up straight. The muscles around his stomach constricted and Sherlock bent forward in pain. The urge to gag became stronger by the second. He felt John's quick fingers pull every patch off and slide on his smooth skin, assessing the situation. John felt for a fever or any other types of discomforts Sherlock could suffer from. Sherlock moaned again and John shook his head, keeping Sherlock steady as the man felt limp beneath his strong arms.

'Drink this,' John ordered and he gave Sherlock a glass of water. He held a wetted cloth to the detective's sweaty forehead as he settled himself back on the sofa, taking Sherlock with him. Sherlock drank without objecting and John rubbed Sherlock's arm with his free hand. 'What were you thinking?' he kept muttering. 'For a minute there I thought you had passed out. Don't do that again, Sherlock, you know full well what the impact of such a _stupid _action is on your body. Especially _your_body – I told you that you need to eat and sleep more...'

Sherlock listened to John's rant without really paying attention to it. He was still dazed from his overdose in nicotine and a content smile played around his lips. He settled back into John's embrace – by lack of a better word – and nuzzled his nose in John's neck. John immediately tensed and he looked at the top Sherlock's head with a worried frown.

'Sherlock...'

The tone in his voice made Sherlock look up with wide eyes. John smiled at Sherlock's pouting lower lip and pulled him a little bit closer. Sherlock let him, though he still seemed a bit apprehensive.

'We need to talk about last night.'

Sherlock let out a trembling breath. He'd expected as much, but he was still surprised at the panic and nervousness he was feeling. He didn't trust his own voice, so he just nodded.

It was silent for a long while before John started talking again. 'You... kissed me.'

Sherlock bit his lip and nodded again. God, he felt humiliated. He had been the slave of his own human needs, damn them. The needs he had always been able to suppress and avoid, the ones that interfered with his work, with his ability to think clearly.  
'Care to explain?' John asked next, now stroking Sherlock's dark, curly hair.

Sherlock took a deep breath, and then decided it'd be best if he just told John the truth. 'I...' he began, his voice high and hoarse.

'I don't really know why I did it. Emotions, it's all very new to me. Everyone's always told me I was such a heartless bastard, everyone at school, university, even my own family.' He spat the last word. He continued in a more quiet voice. 'I am afraid they are right. I am afraid that I am heartless, that I am incapable of feeling any emotions.' Sherlock clenched the front of his expensive shirt tightly, as if he wanted to feel his heart beating underneath his skin. 'I've never had relationships, nor the feeling of wanting one. I could always divorce myself from feelings and I have always thought that I was right in that.'

John listened to Sherlock's story, still stroking the detective's hair for comfort, and his eyes saddened. Sherlock had never really been understood and that had eventually led to him being cut off from the world. John felt for him and wished he had been there in the past to help him.

'But I did have my analytical skill and soon everyone hated me even more for what I deduced about them. I was bullied and the worst part of it is that I didn't even care. I started using my brain for the work of a detective. I got on just fine on my own, doing nothing else than going to crime scenes every day, but I knew somewhere inside my head that I wasn't really happy. I searched for distraction in the form of drugs and multiple times I had overdosed, balancing on the thin thread that was life.'

John shuddered at Sherlock's story; it was horrible picturing Sherlock in the mess that had been his life. It didn't really help that Sherlock knew how to tell a story and used his deep, low voice in a particular way that almost enchanted John. 'That's awful, Sherlock,' John muttered.

'Hm,' Sherlock agreed. 'Again, I didn't care. But thanks to Mycroft I sobered up and got rid of the cocaine. I guess you could say it was because of him that I am still alive.'  
_  
Thank God, Mycroft_, John thought.

'But then Mike introduced me to you,' Sherlock continued, and John was immediately reminded of why they had started this conversation in the first place. 'At first, I had no particular interest in you. I was just looking for someone to share a flat with, since Mycroft had refused to pay my rent any longer. But the longer I spoke to you, the more I felt like all those people who called me heartless might have been wrong. I started to like you and we even became friends. That was more than I had ever had.'

John couldn't help but to smirk to himself. He had been able to get through to the soft core of Sherlock Holmes, and no one else had – in fact, all those people in the past had helped to create the hard shell that Sherlock had around him. John had never met them, but he hated those people with all his heart.

'But friends don't kiss each other, Sherlock, not like that,' John whispered. Sherlock stiffened beneath his arms and John immediately wished he hadn't said anything. He rubbed the detective's arms softly and waited for him to continue. When he did, it was in a quiet, husky voice that made John melt from the inside out.

'It's been going on for a couple of months,' Sherlock whispered. 'I didn't know what it was when it started. I haven't felt this before and I did not know what to do with it. That's why I put it away, hoping it would all go away. I knew though that that wasn't going to happen. I began to realise it when you went out with Sarah... It was chaos in my head, every part of me wanted to let you have a nice time with a woman and not care about it. But I couldn't shake the thought from my head, I couldn't get rid of it, the image of you and her together consumed me. So I followed you,' Sherlock said, a sheepish smile on his face as he curled himself up, as small as possible, his head resting against John's chest, which was going up and down with steady breaths.

Sherlock seemed to relax while talking about his difficult life and John was grateful that he took the time. 'Eventually I realised what it meant, the thinking about you, trying to impress you, following you on your dates...' Sherlock's voice trailed off and he stared at the floor. 'You told me you thought my skin was nice.'

John waited for Sherlock to say more, but when he didn't John whispered; 'Your skin is nice. I meant it, you know.'

'I don't know what came over me. The light put your face into beautiful shadows and you seemed so... close...'

'You kissed me,' John stated the obvious.

'I kissed you.' Sherlock could barely say the words. They were so soft and John had to point his ears to hear them, but they sent  
tingles down his spine.

'I think it's time for you to hear my side of the story,' John said, and he felt Sherlock tense beneath him once more. John pulled  
Sherlock's curled up body closer to him.

'You've deduced me, you know almost everything there is to know about me. I was an army doctor in Afghanistan, shot in the shoulder, invalided home because of that. I felt out of place in London. The rush, the danger, it wasn't there. I'll make this short for you, you're rigid, Sherlock! Relax a bit... There.' John smiled fondly. 'Danger isn't the best thing to be addicted to, you know. But I came in contact with it through you and I loved that. Like you, I did not immediately pay attention to you, hell, I didn't even like you at first!' John heard a small intake of breath below him. He cursed himself and went on with his story. 'But by the end of the second day we knew each other, I shot a serial killer to save your life, Sherlock, and you know why? Because I trusted you.'

'You had trust issues,' Sherlock whispered.

'Yes,' John confirmed. 'And I felt connected to you, I already felt we had a bond. We still have it, in fact; it's stronger than ever. But...' Sherlock held his breath. 'I knew – _I thought_– you were... not unemotional, I knew you could feel sadness, hatred, love. But I thought you didn't love like two people in love do. Like I love you.'

Silence.

'Sherlock?'

Sherlock didn't answer. He was biting his lower lip and his hands were clenched around John's jumper. He was fighting to keep it together. _Like I love you. Love you? John loves me? John loves me! John! Oh, John...!  
_  
Sherlock tried to speak, whisper, make any sound, but his throat would not cooperate. A high squeaky noise eventually came out and John laughed. 'That's why I kept dating women, Sherlock – I thought I wouldn't stand a chance with you. Mind you, I thought nobody had a chance with you, which was what kept me going. But last night, you kissed me, and I couldn't have been happier, but then you shut yourself down again, you were afraid to open up, to show your emotional side, and you looked so afraid. It hurt me to see you like that, and now I know that all those years of bullying made you like that.' John cradled Sherlock's close to his chest and he buried his face in the soft, dark curls. He breathed deeply and loved how he could do that now, hug Sherlock and smell his delicious scent.

Slowly, Sherlock started to untangle himself from John's hug and looked up at his friend with wide eyes. 'You love me.' It wasn't a question.

John nodded. 'I love you, Sherlock. Do you love me?'

A moment of hesitation – John took a deep breath and hoped he hadn't been too soon. Sherlock's full lips parted as his mouth opened, and his pale green-blue eyes seemed to soften as he spoke the four words that made both their hearts explode with happiness. 'I love you, John.'

John's face lit up as he smiled. Sherlock's hesitant little smile eventually broadened into a beaming one, one that John had rarely seen. But it was the most genuine smile Sherlock could have on his face, and he only had it around John. John recalled Sherlock had had it when they had come home after chasing a cab, the short moment at the pool when they had thought Moriarty had vanished and when Sherlock had been sitting in Buckingham Palace, only a white sheet wrapped tightly around his naked body.

They sat there, smiling at each other for just a few more minutes, before Sherlock curled himself up again and put his head on John's lap. He put his arms around John's hips and let John stroke his hair again. He closed his eyes and suddenly realised how incredibly tired he was. 'My John,' he mumbled before he drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

John smiled at his sleeping friend – or was he more than a friend now? Were they boyfriends? Lovers? – and continued to brush his fingers along the soft, dark curls that framed his beautiful face. Sherlock really was beautiful; his face seemed so young, younger than he actually was, almost boyish, though there was nothing round about it. Sherlock's face was all angles and shadows; the impossibly high cheekbones and his sharp jaw made his face seem long and his cheeks hollow, though it felt completely different when John brushed his fingers over it; the skin was incredibly soft. Another thing that had always intrigued John was the detective's mouth. The lines were smooth, the lips were full and the peculiar but fascinating shape of the upper lip's Cupid's bow made John wonder what kissing those felt like. Not like the kiss they had shared the day before, but a more intimate one, a deeper one, one that would allow John to feel all of Sherlock.

Then there was his nose, which perked up in an almost cute way when he laughed, or when he was deep in thought. John giggled quietly when he realised that the relaxed, sleeping Sherlock on his lap looked just adorable, so _human_and still so Sherlock. John sighed as he thought about the detective's eyes; they were extraordinarily beautiful, the way they swept across any room with exceptional subtlety, their pale green-blue colour so bright John was convinced they could look right into your soul. The way they always narrowed slightly when he had seen something that might be relevant, or the dark, long eyelashes that complemented the pale irises so exceptionally well.

Content with his fingers in Sherlock's dark hair, John slid sideways along the back of the sofa and curled up beside Sherlock, dozing off within seconds.

* * *

Strong arms were around John's waist when he woke up; they were both on their sides now, facing each other, and Sherlock's nose disappeared in John's chest while he hugged the other man against him. John knew that Sherlock was awake, even though he had his eyes closed, and he pressed his lips against the top of Sherlock's head. 'Good morning,' he muttered.

'Morning,' was the muffled reply. Sherlock's mouth was pressed against the fabric of John's jumper and John could tell that the man was not entirely comfortable.

'Sherlock?' John asked. There was no reply. 'Sherlock, what's wrong?'

There was a quiet mumble and John could feel Sherlock's lips move against his chest, but he could not understand the words.

'Sorry?' he said.

'Not sure how to do this,' Sherlock whispered shyly.

John fought the urge to squeal and hugged Sherlock tighter. 'We'll do it our own way. I'll help you through this, Sherlock. It's new for you, isn't it? But I will make sure this first experience for you will be an amazing one, and I'll make sure you won't have to do or say anything you're not ready for. Hmm?' he said softly, his mouth still pressed to Sherlock's dark curls.

Sherlock nodded, looking up at John with wide, sparkling eyes. 'I want you to make this first experience my only one. I'm ready, John. Kiss me.'

John smiled; the combination of those words coming from Sherlock's (perfect) mouth would have surprised him before, to say the least, but now John wished nothing but to hear them and to oblige them. His heart pounded in his chest, beating frantically at the thought of kissing Sherlock again. He nodded and Sherlock's grip on his hips tightened as he pulled himself up to face the doctor. John leant forward and he felt Sherlock's fingers dig into his skin, through his jeans. John heard a soft gasp coming from Sherlock's mouth and he ran a gentle hand through his dark curls. He knew Sherlock was... "Uncomfortable" wasn't the right word, nor was "scared". "Apprehensive" came the closest, John decided, although it still didn't quite fit. Sherlock had never done anything like this before, even his spontaneous kiss from two nights before had startled him.

'It's okay, my dear,' John breathed into Sherlock's ear. 'We won't do anything you're not ready for.'

'No,' Sherlock contradicted, shaking his head. 'I... Like I said last night, it's just... new. I've got to get used to it, that's all. I am ready for this, John – believe me.'

'I believe you,' John whispered and his lips brushed Sherlock's cheek as they searched for his mouth again. The detective closed his eyes and held in breath in expectation. His big, pale hands moved up John's back and John shivered, gently pressing his lips to Sherlock's waiting open mouth. A small moan escaped his lips when John's hands started stroking his shoulders and his upper back.

Sherlock gasped at the feel of John's lips against his; a blazing fire lit up in his lower abdomen and a sensation welled up in him, one he had never felt before, but he wished he had because _God, _it felt good. John moved his lips slowly against his, his hands stroking Sherlock's shoulder through the thin fabric of his expensive shirt. Sherlock gasped when John opened his mouth and moved his hips against Sherlock's, but he didn't break up the kiss. Sherlock answered by opening his mouth as well. Immediately, his heart started pounding again; in theory, he knew what to do next...

John felt Sherlock's hesitation and pulled back again, looking Sherlock deeply in the eye. 'Is this all right with you?' he asked, brushing Sherlock's cheek with his right hand. Sherlock nodded. 'Yes,' he whispered. John smiled and brought his face to Sherlock's again, but Sherlock stopped him by laying a finger to his lips. 'But I've never done it before, John. Tell me if... if I do something inappropriate. Please?' he asked, once again looking at John with wide eyes. John smiled and nodded before closing his eyes and leaning in for the third time.

For as far as John knew, this was the first time that he "taught" anyone how to kiss, that he had kissed a man, and that he had more experience in something than Sherlock Holmes. _There's a first for everything, _John thought right before their lips met again.  
Fireworks exploded in John's stomach when Sherlock kissed him back with more confidence now. John's thoughts seemed to drift off in a dynamic whirlwind that was just _Sherlock _and he didn't even think about Sherlock's inexperience in this part of life.

Everything in him screamed, yelled, shouted, moaned, craved for Sherlock and he sighed in satisfaction when Sherlock parted his lips again, his soft, full lips -

Oh. _Oh.  
_  
This was – bloody hell, this, Sherlock's lips surrounding his, his warm breath blowing in John's mouth as he sighed, their tongues enraptured in a slow dance, it was amazing. 'Sherlock,' John gasped. Even to him it felt special, as if it was a first, as if he hadn't known such a feeling before. Despite Sherlock's lack of experience, he was a damn good kisser, John decided. Perhaps it was because he was a man instead of a woman? No, sod that, John thought. It's because he's Sherlock and I love him. It's because he's so warm, pressed tightly against me, kissing me like I've never been kissed before.

Sherlock closed his mouth again and finished the long kiss with a gentle, tiny one. He rested his forehead against John's and allowed the tips of their noses to touch. 'And...?' he asked shyly.

'You are perfect, Sherlock.'

'Do you mean that?'

'I do.'

Sherlock smiled and ran his thumb over John's slightly swollen lips. He kissed them again briefly before he nosed in John's neck, apparently settling himself there.

'What did you think of it?' John asked, slightly curious – and nervous. He had always thought he was a decent kisser, but with Sherlock Holmes you never knew.

'I could think of many adjectives.'

John swallowed nervously and Sherlock chuckled, pressing a small kiss to John's neck. 'Positive or negative?' John asked, stroking Sherlock's hair.

'Definitely positive.'

John smiled in relief. 'Give me some.'

Sherlock laughed and consulted his extensive vocabulary. 'Interesting – fascinating. Breathtaking – quite literally – wonderful, amazing, perfect, just downright gorgeous, John.'

John practically gleamed with pride. He hugged Sherlock closer to him on the sofa and they stayed like that for a while, until they both realised that it was already noon and they had not changed their clothes yet. John hastily jumped up and went for his bedroom, but Sherlock grinned and blushed – John was astounded – and seized him by the wrist, pulling him along to his bedroom. 'Sherlock?' John asked, a bemused smile on his face when he saw Sherlock's flushed face.

'You know me, John. Introduce me to a new way of keeping my mind occupied and I won't want anything else.' Sherlock kept his long, agile fingers tightly around John's wrist while fumbling with the doorknob with his other hand.

'Oh, is that what I am? Just any other distraction to keep your mind from going out of control?' John couldn't keep himself from feeling slightly hurt.

'A good distraction, though.' Sherlock had finally managed to open his door and they now stood inside, next to the big, neat bed that stood in the middle of the room. 'A distraction whom I love. A distraction whom I want to kiss, to love me back, to stay with me until the day we die.' Sherlock's hands were on John's back and he'd been leaning in unconsciously. 'I want more, John,' he breathed in the doctor's ear. 'You know what I'm like. I need stimulation...'

John glanced at the bed and looked back at the detective. 'You're sure you want this?'

'Perhaps not now. Perhaps not tomorrow. It will happen one day, John. I ask you know; will you be with me when it's time? Will you want me as bad as I will want you? Will you do this with me?'

John nodded and swallowed away his fear. Sherlock was with him and it would all be all right. 'As long as you'll be with me. I have more experience than you in this area, though when it comes to this, I'm afraid I don't know more than you do.' John felt slightly worried.

'Don't worry, John. We'll figure something out. For now, I am perfectly happy with this...' Sherlock pressed his lips against John's ear and moved along an invisible path that covered John's jawline and his neck, and ended at his mouth. 'Perfectly...' Sherlock muttered between two kisses. 'Happy,' he whispered a moment later.

John couldn't agree more.

* * *

**Hedgehog's been a very bad fangirl again. I was just listening to one of my favourite Muse songs (well that says a lot) and immediately this popped into my head. I just thought the lyrics fit with Sherlock and John's relationship..  
I haven't decided yet whether to make more chapters, I think I will. In which they will do what... their last conversation was about, wink wink. But it won't be smutty or anything, in fact it will probably be all vague. More information, next chapter... Thanks for reading ^^**


	2. Trust me

**Disclaimer: I still do not own the characters. Or the title. I wish they were mine, though. Ah well; guess I'll have to make do with the plot.**

**Warnings: There's more than in the last chapter; Sherlock/John etc. But - rating's still T for now, I will upgrade for the next chapter. Now off you pop and read the story (unless you're underage).**

**This story is inspired by the song "Undisclosed Desires" by Muse. I just thought it went well with how I think Sherlock and John's relationship should be.**

_**I know you've suffered  
But I don't want you to hide  
It's cold and loveless  
I won't let you be denied**_

**_Soothing_**  
**_I'll make you feel pure_**  
**_Trust me_**  
**_You can be sure_**

* * *

'Next time, Lestrade, pay attention to untied laces on the man's boot. It is essential you know that; you cannot always rely on me and John to solve a case for you. Now, if you'll excuse us, we have a serial killer to catch.' Sherlock turned away from Lestrade at the new crime scene (a middle aged man, hit on the head with a frying pan) and pulled John along with him. 'Come on, love,' he muttered. He quickly caught his breath; the word had slipped from his mouth before he had noticed it. Damn. This was not how he wanted the Yard to find out.

'Excuse me?' said Lestrade. He, Anderson, Donovan and some other policemen present at the scene gaped at the tall detective. John blushed heavily – he had gotten used to calling Sherlock "darling" or "dear", but he hadn't expected Sherlock to use them to him. He didn't mind it, absolutely not, but the fact that such a tiny little word had an entire team of the Yard gaping at the pair of them…

'Did you just call him "love"? Did I hear that right?' Donovan asked, her sceptical eyes wide.

'Oh, leave him alone,' John snapped. He grabbed Sherlock by the shoulder and started dragging him to the hallway, but Anderson decided to interfere as well. 'Who would have thought that our favourite sociopath would ever feel this kind of an emotion?' he snorted.

'Anderson, knock it off,' Lestrade muttered, highly uncomfortable. Donovan and Anderson ignored him though and they went on with their insults. 'Doctor Watson, you better watch out. I warned you; you know what he's like. He'll use you just to get his kicks and then he'll throw you aside like you're nothing.' Donovan rolled her eyes and looked at Anderson with raised eyebrows.

John couldn't believe what he was hearing; the words were like daggers going straight through his heart, even though they weren't even directed to him. Sherlock stood next to him, his entire body tense. His face was impassive, but John knew him well enough by now to see a flicker of hurt in his eyes and know that he was anything but okay. It enraged John even more than it had before he knew that it affected Sherlock more than he let on.

'Never insult Sherlock in front of me,' John growled, taking a step closer to the sergeant. 'He might be a bit odd, different – but one thing I've learnt since last month is that he's anything but a sociopath. Let alone a psychopath,' he added, glowering at Anderson. 'He's as capable of loving someone as you and me. Or maybe just like me, because I'm not so sure about you.' And with that, he turned around, took Sherlock's face in his hands and gave him a fierce kiss on the mouth. 'Let's go, _darling_,' he said, and, winking at Lestrade, who smiled weakly, he took Sherlock's hand and dragged him along.

* * *

'Well, Sherlock – what do we do now? Where is the killer?' John asked when they were on the street. He did not get a response and he looked up at his friend. Sherlock was staring at him, his pale eyes wide, his lips slightly open, a hint of a smile around them. His eyes drifted down to their joined hands, and then back to John's eyes.

'What is it, Sherlock?' John asked, becoming slightly concerned. Sherlock took a step closer to him and laced his fingers through John's. 'That was amazing, John,' he whispered. 'No one's ever stood up for me like that – not that it has ever been necessary, but... I used to think it _wasn't _necessary, but I didn't know it could hurt so much, being called names. I...' Sherlock struggled with the words and dropped his voice to a lower tone, as if he didn't want to be overheard. 'You were right. I do have feelings – I've always had them, I just put them away and thought I didn't need them. But I do feel pain, and joy, and love.' He looked John in the eyes again and soon felt lost in their dark blue depths. Sherlock was a practical man, who always turned to science in a moment of doubt. But there was no scientific explanation for the fact that John's eyes seemed to change colour – last night, for instance, they had seemed a hazel brown. Sherlock smiled; he didn't know that talking about emotions actually helped, but perhaps it wasn't just the talking. Talking about it with _John _was even better.

John's expression softened and he gave Sherlock a soft kiss on the cheek. 'I've always known you were capable of feeling emotions, Sherlock, not just since last month. I just helped you in expressing them.'

'John?'

'Yes?'

'You looked sexy when you were teaching Anderson and Donovan a lesson.' Sherlock was blushing, though his expression was perfectly steady. He smiled at John's bright red cheeks.

'If you say so,' the doctor replied, but he couldn't help feeling quite smug as they walked away, still holding hands.

* * *

'John, that way!' Sherlock shouted as he waved his arm to the right. 'Don't let him escape!'

He dashed around the corner a split second after John, his coat billowing around his long legs. The serial killer they were after was a fast bloke; young, muscular and fit. But he had been losing speed and Sherlock was sure he was becoming tired. He picked up his pace and bolted past John, who frowned at being outrun and quickened his own. They were now running beside each other, still entirely focused on the dangerous man in front of them.

They ran for a while, though they were catching up on him; his pace had slowed down and even from a distance they could hear his breathing become ragged. _A sprinter,_ Sherlock thought. _Fast, but only for a short amount of time. A few more minutes and then we should be able to get him. _

It did not get to those few minutes; at a point where two alleys crossed each other the killer turned around, a sharp knife in his hands. It was perhaps ten inches long and he didn't hesitate to lunge forward, the knife pointed at John. John was still running at top speed and when he saw the sharp point directed to him, his eyes went wide but he had no time to stop. He tried to change direction, but the alley was narrow and there was no space. He bit his lip and tried to slow down with all his might, but there was no escaping from the knife that was only a few foot ahead of him.  
_  
Not my John_, Sherlock thought. _Don't you dare kill my John, or it'll be the last thing you will ever do. _With a growl of anger, Sherlock burst forward and threw himself on top of the killer, the blade scraping his skin. He was too angry to notice the pain however, and pinned the man to the floor. Sherlock grabbed the front of the man's t-shirt in his rage and fear and slammed his head against the concrete floor. He let go with his right hand, only to raise the arm and bring it down hard, his hand closed tightly into a fist. His knuckles landed on the man's temple and he hit the floor again, spluttering in pain. Sherlock punched repeatedly, until the killer's face was bruised and bloody – until John had slowed down enough and grabbed him by the shoulders. Sherlock was still blinded by an uncontrollable rage and fought John's grip, kicking the torso of the wounded man for good measure, but eventually his efforts combined with his sprint drained him and he hung limply in John's arms.

'Don't dare – kill John Watson... knife – I'll make you... pay!' he gasped, angrily looking at the unconscious man from beneath his eyebrows.

'Sherlock, he's knocked out! You knocked him unconscious, it won't do any good.' John dragged Sherlock's limp body out of the way and sat beside him on his knees. He touched Sherlock's cheek briefly and gave him a sweet kiss on the lips. 'Thank you,' he whispered. He quickly moved over to the wounded killer and examined his injuries. His nose was broken, a few teeth were knocked out, one went through his lip, there were several purple bruises on his cheekbones and forehead and there was a small wound in his head from where his head had hit the pavement. No wounds that would kill him immediately, and pain had missed him for the most part, since Sherlock's first blow to the temple had already knocked him out.

'Is he dead?' Sherlock growled angrily. He scrambled up from the floor, a little flushed by his fit of anger – and John's kiss – and crawled on hands and knees to sit next to John.

'No,' John shook his head. 'Just KO. That was completely unnecessary, Sherlock.'

'Unnecessary?' said Sherlock, his eyes wide in disbelief. 'He would have killed you, John! Not even my skills in observation were needed to notice that.'

'That's not what I mean,' said John, though he wasn't really angry. 'I just meant that knocking him out was a bit...'

'Not good?' Sherlock asked, his low voice small, like a child's when he had done something wrong. John couldn't help but chuckle and he drew Sherlock in a big hug. 'No, it was... just unnecessary. Thanks again. I love you.'

Sherlock smiled and answered John's hug. 'I love you, too,' he murmured into the doctor's shoulder, breathing deeply. He loved John's scent; it was a fresh, good kind of medical smell, mixed with something that looked like mint. He could identify the soap he used and the shampoo – he could even smell himself on John's jumper. It was a nice combination – it was home.

Sherlock smiled against John's shoulder and hugged his lover slash boyfriend slash flatmate tighter to him as he pocket texted Lestrade. A few more minutes, and then the police would arrive at the scene, bringing an ambulance for the unconscious man lying on the floor next to them. Until that time, Sherlock and John didn't move.

* * *

A grimace on his face, Sherlock flexed the fingers of his right hand. The knuckles were bruised, swollen and there even was a cut on one of them as it had come into contact with the killer's teeth. Sherlock looked at his hand in disgust and waved it dismissively as John offered him a cup of tea. 'I'm fine, thanks,' he said, but John's eyes narrowed and widened again as he saw a dark red stain through his light blue shirt.

'Good God, Sherlock, you haven't been stabbed, have you?' he said, putting down the tray on which the kettle and two cups stood. He hurried over to Sherlock and rolled up the sleeve. Sherlock winced slightly, but he refused to make any sound. 'Just a scratch,' he hissed between his teeth.

'A scratch? Sherlock, this is deep enough for you to need stitches. Hang on, I'll get my first aid kit. Stay where you are,' he ordered, 'and then I'll treat your hand as well.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes but stayed put. He actually liked the idea of John's caring, careful hands on him. John returned several moments later, a small box tucked under his arm. He smiled when he saw that Sherlock hadn't moved, in fact, he had made it easier for John to treat his arm by rolling up his sleeve a bit more.

'You're bloody lucky he missed the major artery in your wrist... It's all right, love,' he said when Sherlock's hand jerked out of his reflexively. 'Now, this will hurt a little bit,' he cautioned. Sherlock took a deep breath but he didn't look away; injuries had always fascinated him, even as a little kid. He could look at his bruises for hours, and was always intrigued at the pace with which a drop of blood rolled from its cut.

He saw how John drew out a needle and a long thread from his kit. 'You can do without sedatives, can you?' John asked, a smile around his lips. 'Besides, that would leave me to make more preparations, and I'm only allowed to use those in case of an emergency. You wouldn't want to go all the way to the surgery, would you? Sherlock, my dear, this isn't an emergency, is it?'  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 'I'm not a six-year-old anymore, John. I'm sure I can manage a little pain.'

John nodded and grabbed Sherlock's arm again, and Sherlock wondered how John could handle it with such force without hurting him. The needle in John's right hand was now closer to the skin of his forearm and Sherlock despised himself for feeling slightly panicky. _It's just a cut, _he told himself. He nodded encouragingly to John to proceed, though he clenched his teeth. A small gasp escaped his mouth as he felt the needle puncture his white skin, followed by the uncomfortable pull of the thread. John knew that Sherlock was in pain – Sherlock's teeth were clenched and his nostrils flared – and hurried to finish his handiwork, quickly with the practised hand of an (army) doctor. When he was done, he rubbed a soothing crème on the cut and wrapped a bandage around it before pressing a series of tiny little kisses down Sherlock's wrist.

'Thank you,' Sherlock muttered.

'I'm not done yet,' John said and turned to Sherlock's hand. 'Oh, God. You know how to hit a man, don't you, dear?' The last word came out with a smirk and they both chuckled. Sherlock examined his hand and decided that it had been worth it. 'I suppose,' he said with a shrug.

It took John no more than five minutes to patch his fingers up. He excused himself briefly to store away his medicine kit and returned to find Sherlock studying his battered arm. 'Well, this is certainly not the worst injury I've had,' he mused. 'But it is the most satisfying one.'

'What do you mean by that?' John asked worriedly. He sat down next to Sherlock and took his injured hand in his, softly tracing the angular lines that was so distinctly Sherlock's.

'The way I got it,' Sherlock explained as he turned his hand around for John to play with his palm and recently stitched forearm.  
'I'd have a thousand of these to prevent you from dying. Or even to prevent you from severe injuries.'

It took a while for John to respond. He'd been drawing random patterns in the palm of Sherlock's hand before he finally opened his mouth. 'I should say that you're ridiculous in saying that. But the truth is, I'd have done the exact same thing if it had been the other way around. I'd have taken a hundred broken legs, a thousand broken arms, millions of cuts and bruises to keep you safe.'

Sherlock looked up and smiled at him. He raised his injured hand and took John's chin, turning it slightly so their faces lined up. 'I love you, John,' he whispered softly. 'I really do.' John smiled in response and Sherlock could almost feel the heat radiating off him. Wanting to share that heat, he drew John's face closer to his own and pulled him into one of their now familiar kisses. John responded immediately and put his arms around the tall detective, running his hand through his soft curls. Sherlock's full lips clung to his and John couldn't resist nipping at them. A smile played around his lips as Sherlock gasped, and then, as he decided he actually quite liked John's teeth softly biting his lips, he moaned quietly. 'John...' John let go and kissed Sherlock again, opening his mouth and encouraging Sherlock to do the same. Gently, he pushed Sherlock on his back without hurting his injured arm. Sherlock pulled John with him by laying his good hand on John's neck. John placed him carefully between the cushions and hovered above him, not sure how much weight Sherlock could take. It was the first time that things had become so heated between the pair of them – Sherlock had always shown some signs of hesitation when John took it one tiny step further in their relationship. But there was little of that now; Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulders with both of his hands and pulled him down on top of him, loving the full weight of John. He loved John's warmth; he loved everything about John.

Their energetic kiss continued for a while, and it became more passionate and more heated. Sherlock's excitement grew and so did John's. Sherlock forgot about the pain in his arm and all he could think about was the man on top of him, the man who treated his every injury, the man who was always with him, the man he loved so dear. 'John...' Sherlock whispered. 'I think I'm ready.'  
John pulled back an inch or so and looked at Sherlock questioningly. He knew exactly what Sherlock was talking about, he did not need to ask. 'Are you sure?' he asked him.

Sherlock thought he saw a hint of fear in the doctor's eyes and slightly panicked. He had not thought about John's willingness; what if John wasn't ready? 'I mean... if that's all right... with you,' he stammered, averting his eyes.

'No, no, of course it's all right with me, Sherlock,' John said hastily. He bit his lip and blushed. 'It's just that... I know it's new to you, and I want to be there to help you, but it's also new to me, this...'

'You're already here to help me,' Sherlock muttered. 'I told you, we'll figure something out. All I know now is that I want you, and I want all of you. We're both ready, we both love each other; what could go wrong?'

John frowned and smiled. 'For someone who's never had a relationship before, you sound like you know what you're talking about.'

Sherlock smiled. 'I did my research.'

John helped Sherlock to a sitting position. 'Right. Your bedroom or mine?' Even though he felt slightly nervous, John also felt a strange sense of excitement. Sherlock was a virgin, he'd practically told him that much. And John would be the first – and only – person to touch him, and he would take it slow, for Sherlock's sake. He would be tender, loving and careful.

A lump seemed to have formed in Sherlock's throat and John stroked the back of Sherlock's injured hand. 'Mine's closer,' he said hoarsely. John nodded and smiled reassuringly. Sherlock smiled back and John could see excitement in his eyes, as well as passion and a little fear. 'It's okay,' John whispered. 'I won't do anything you're not ready for. You don't have to do anything you're not ready for.' Sherlock nodded in understanding and stood up from the sofa. He stretched out his hand and John took it, drawing Sherlock in a tight embrace.

John took Sherlock's hand and walked him to Sherlock's bedroom. This bedroom was now more familiar to him, as he had been sleeping in it the last month. There had not really been a question as to whose bedroom they wanted to use, but John thought perhaps Sherlock would feel more comfortable sleeping in his own bed if things went horribly wrong in John's bedroom. John shivered at the thought. He really hoped nothing would go wrong.

When he opened the door, he heard a soft intake of breath behind him. John looked over his shoulder and saw the most adorable thing in the world; Sherlock clasping his hand tightly with both hands, wide eyes filled with fear, apprehension and desire, biting his lip. He truly did not know what next to do and John's heart melted. This beautiful man, this amazing creature, so clever, so intelligent, could look so helpless and unsure; it made John realise how lucky he was and he closed the door behind him. Sherlock reluctantly let go of his hand and stood indecisively beside the bed. His heart went frantic. Never had he felt so insecure, not even during secondary school. He'd been bullied, yes, but he had always had a certain dignity to rely on. Now it was just him, trying to do something that he didn't know anything about, and he felt alone.

John realised something was wrong and walked up to Sherlock. 'Sit down, Sherlock,' was all he said. Sherlock sat down on the edge of the bed, still with those big puppy eyes. His lower lip trembled and John shook his head sadly. This could become difficult.  
He sat down next to the detective and put and arm around his shoulders, reaching for Sherlock's good hand with his own.

Sherlock looked at him sideways, and still the doubt hadn't vanished. 'My dear Sherlock,' John began. 'If you don't want this, you don't have to do this. I'm certainly not going to force you. It's up to you.'

Sherlock took a deep breath and quirked a small smile. 'But I do want this, John. I want this more than anything. I'm just not used to feeling...' Sherlock said the word with reluctance. 'Unsure.'

John nodded, finally understanding what it must be like inside Sherlock's brain. Usually, he's the cleverest person in the room, always sure about everything and everyone. It has been like that all his life, and he doesn't know anything differently. And while that could have been a good thing, it hadn't worked out the proper way for Sherlock while he was a kid; other children had picked on him and he had decided that social interventions were unnecessary, and therefore he had excluded all social contact in his life, including relationships and emotions. By this, he had limited knowledge and experience in relationships and that's what caused him to feel uncomfortable in his bedroom with John beside him.

John laid a gentle hand on Sherlock's back. 'It's a normal feeling, Sherlock. I mean, it would have been weird if you were feeling extremely confident before your first time. But I'll promise you one thing; I will make sure that you enjoy every second of it, and if there is something you feel uncomfortable with I want you to tell me and I'll stop.'

Sherlock nodded and almost reluctantly asked, 'What do we do now?'

John didn't answer; instead, he kissed Sherlock again and moved him from the edge of the bed to the centre, kicking off his shoes. Sherlock did the same and kissed John back, instantly feeling more comfortable as the warmth of the doctor surrounded him. He moved his hands to unbutton John's shirt, but a nagging voice inside his head stopped him. Insecurity washed over him again and he dropped his hands in despair.

John felt Sherlock's grip on him hesitate and he smiled fondly, and whispered in his ear; 'Do what your instinct tells you to do. I know it sounds cheesy, but follow your heart.'

Sherlock nodded and suddenly, he didn't care anymore. John told him to do what he thought was right and he wouldn't hate him if there was something he'd do that would be wrong. It seemed as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders and his kiss became more passionate as he started to fumble with the buttons on John's shirt. 'I love you, John.'

'Hmm,' John moaned. 'I love you, too, Sherlock.' He smiled when he felt Sherlock's quick, agile fingers work their way down his shirt and shivered when he felt Sherlock's cool hand on his chest. Slowly, he started to make his way to Sherlock's collar and breathed heavily in anticipation. They had seen each other bare-chested before, but now it had a whole new meaning. Slowly, Sherlock's beautiful pale chest came into view and John couldn't help but whimper at the sight. How could the man be so muscular, yet so skinny? John was a doctor, and he wasn't even sure.

Their shirts lay on the floor beside the bed within seconds and they just took a moment to gaze at each other. 'You look so beautiful, Sherlock,' John whispered, his hand on Sherlock's muscled chest. John looked Sherlock in the eyes for what seemed like hours. He just looked so gorgeous; his pale green eyes a tad wider than they usually were, his full lips slightly parted, his ruffled dark hair falling over his forehead... He was so damn lucky. 'Can't believe how lucky I am to have you,' John echoed his thoughts in a mumble. His hands trailed down Sherlock's chest, lingering around the waistband of Sherlock's trousers. He felt the detective tense up again and John whispered soothing words into his ear, which relaxed him and soon he felt Sherlock's long fingers fiddle with the button of his own jeans. His fingers trembled a little bit, but his breathing was eager. 'I am lucky, too,' he breathed in John's neck.

John shivered in delight and helped Sherlock in getting his jeans off. Sherlock grinned and removed his own trousers, leaving John to stare adoringly at his long, slender legs. Like his torso, they were unbelievably skinny, but the wiry muscles that corded through the rest of his body were also present in his thighs and calves.

Sherlock frowned when he saw John staring at him, obviously frustrated. 'Did I do something wrong?' he asked, again in that small child's voice.

John smiled fondly and reached out to touch Sherlock's leg. Sherlock jerked back a little bit but enjoyed the warmth of the touch.

'Nothing, my dear. Just being your perfect self.'

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief and lay down into the pillows. 'Doctor Watson,' he whispered confidently. 'I'm all yours.'

* * *

**Oh dear. I thought I'd promised a little bit of intimacy, didn't I? Sorry boys! You'll have to wait for the new chapter. Reason is because I feel more comfortable keeping my chapters the same length, and it was just at the moment Sherlock uttered these few words... I thought it was a nice way to end a chapter.  
Sooooo, let me know what you think and I'll promise to be a good Hedgehog and write my arse off. :) Thanks for reading (and hopefully reviewing!) **


	3. Please me

**Soooo, *sighs*. That was it, then. I think. Officially, this story is complete now and I hope you enjoy the final chapter. I had difficulty writing this, that's for sure, but I managed pretty well, I think. Writer's block is hard to get over...  
**  
**Warnings: Yeah, it's more than the previous two chapters; Sherlock/John, but it's not too explicit. Still, if you are underage I advise you not too read it xD They're having sex in this one, if that wasn't clear yet, but once again, it could be worse.**

**This story is inspired by a song called "Undisclosed Desires" by Muse.**

**_You trick your lovers that you're wicked and divine  
You may be a sinner but your innocence is mine  
Please me  
Show me how it's done  
Tease me  
You are the one_**

* * *

_I'm all yours.  
_  
Sherlock had spoken in a low voice, the voice which made John's knees weak only by thinking about it. And the meaning of those words! _I'm all yours. Sherlock Holmes is mine. He is mine. He trusts me to do whatever I want with him.  
_  
But with that trust came a huge responsibility, and John knew it. Sherlock was about to be introduced to a whole new experience and it was up to John to make him experience it right. But John also knew that he would do it right, he wouldn't let anything bad happen. Sherlock loved him, he told him that, and having his trust and love was a rare and wonderful thing. He would not abuse it.

Sherlock had observed John's reaction to lowering his voice, giving it just that edge that made it sound confident, but not too cocky, and still leave the doctor feeling completely in control. He used it now, albeit a little bit apprehensively, and smirked a little in success when he saw John's eyes widen, pupils dilated, ablaze with lust and desire. Sherlock's innocent gaze was now completely gone; even though he still felt a little nervous, he knew he wanted nothing else, no one else but John. And John, apparently, agreed; he leant forward and pressed his lips hungrily against Sherlock's, though still with the love and passion he so wanted to maintain.

Sherlock gasped at John's eager lips and kissed back willingly. John's warm hand travelled down his side, his thumb tracing the muscles. He curled his fingers briefly around the waistband of Sherlock's dark boxers, and he looked at Sherlock from approval. Sherlock nodded silently while his breath fastened and his hands drifted off to John's hips. John grunted encouragingly and he felt gentle tugging when John slowly removed his underwear. More frightened than he would ever care to admit, Sherlock held his breath and made sure that he wasn't the only naked person in the room. He pressed his face to John's injured shoulder and reluctantly shivered.

'Are you okay, Sherlock?' John asked, gently rubbing Sherlock's back. 'I won't rush things. Let's just take it one step at a time, okay?' he whispered in Sherlock's ear. He hugged Sherlock close to him and pressed sweet kissed to his jaw and neck. He laid Sherlock down in the pillows again and marvelled at the sight of him. 'You are so beautiful, Sherlock,' he whispered hoarsely. He bent down to leave a long trail of small, wet kisses along Sherlock's chest. He felt Sherlock's chest go up and down heavier and heavier when he went farther down. Sherlock's fingers searched for John's hair and he moaned, yanking his face up again so he could kiss him passionately.

John's hand felt smooth against his skin as it stroked his hip. Sherlock almost arched into the touch and he muttered; 'John... no one's ever seen me like... like this, no one's ever touched me this way...' He gasped as he felt John's hand on his – now naked – buttocks and kissed John a bit harder, hesitantly. With jerky movements, as if he wasn't completely sure of his actions yet, Sherlock's fingers trailed John's spine. Apprehensive though he might be, he did know the sensitive places of the human body and above all, he knew John.

John shivered violently, a wide grin appearing on his face. He looked into Sherlock's eyes and loved how the ice cold stare had completely vanished; Sherlock's gaze was warm and John could practically read his thoughts. _John, I love you; I trust you; I'm ready; I want you._

John pressed his body tighter to Sherlock's and they continued kissing. Sherlock folded his arms around John, wanting to feel his muscles and his warm skin. They were both getting quite heated and sweaty, but Sherlock found to his surprise that John's hot, sticky skin stirred something deep inside him, something he had neglected for years. 'Oh, _John..._' In fact, not only his skin caused such a deep reaction from Sherlock; it was everything, John's physical and emotional warmth, his smiles, the twinkles in his beautiful dark blue eyes, his fit, army-trained body, his lips tugging at his own... Sherlock curled his right leg around John's, telling him he wanted more without breaking up their kiss. John pulled back slightly, clearly intending to look Sherlock deeply in the eyes and asking once more whether this was actually what he wanted, but Sherlock knew for sure and he kept their lips securely locked. John needed an answer though and hummed questioningly. 'Just do it,' Sherlock panted against John's mouth. John took the small moment to murmur; 'It might be uncomfortable Sherlock – in the beginning. It might even hurt. I'll be gentle, I promise.'  
Sherlock's heart beat with the emotions that had swirled through him for the past hour; excitement, love, desire, confusion, insecurity, fear. And even though those last three weren't particularly good, they were necessary, Sherlock understood, and he needed to prove to himself that he could overcome any fears, especially if they concerned his relationship with John.

John's hand drifted down again, following the curve of his buttocks. Sherlock shut his eyes; he wanted this so bad, but he was afraid. He felt John's other hand groping around, looking for his. Sherlock took a deep breath and took it, nodding slightly.

John was careful, he knew that; he felt it. But he could do nothing about the uncomfortable feeling that there was something inside his body that didn't belong there. It's John, he told himself. It's John, nothing can go wrong. He clasped John's hand tightly and the small squeeze back calmed him. He gritted his teeth as he suddenly became aware of the pain.

He had known it was going to hurt, even before John told him, but he hadn't known how to prepare. He just breathed slowly through his nose and tried to ignore it, tried to focus on John's soft hand stroking his comfortingly, when suddenly he felt John's lips eagerly search for his. He obliged hungrily, immediately forgetting about his pain. His mouth found John's and a new set of explosives seemed to have ignited in his stomach. Perhaps it was the fact that it wasn't as wild or hungry as some kisses were. Perhaps it was because John's lips moved so slowly against his, so tentatively, as if it was one of their first. Perhaps it was because John did _something _that felt so good –

'John! God, _John_!'

The pain had all of a sudden subsided; well, perhaps not _subsided_, but Sherlock no longer noticed it because waves of pleasure shot through his body. A warm feeling spread through to the tips of his fingers and toes, though goose bumps appeared on his shoulders and arms. It was a feeling Sherlock had never known before, at least not quite so intense, but God, he wanted more of it.

'Sherlock,' John groaned in response. He felt Sherlock arch his back under him and smiled. So far so good.

Even Sherlock was surprised by the force in his arms as he used them to press John closer to him. He kissed him fiercely, throwing all the carefulness and hesitance out the door. Again, he wrapped his legs around John's body, who instantly knew that Sherlock wanted to feel more. John broke off the kiss, leaving Sherlock gasping below him, desperate at the loss off contact. But soon Sherlock felt John's lips in his neck and the pleasure was back again, even better than before. He arched up from the mattress, wanting to get as close as possible to John. 'John, I... I need something, I need you to... _do _something...' he whispered hoarsely.

'Please...'

John stopped trailing Sherlock's collar bone with kisses to look him deeply in the eye. When he saw absolute truth in them, he bent forward slowly and closed his eyes at the last moment before their lips met. The kiss was passionate and slow, not like it had been before. It almost made Sherlock forget what he was about to do, what he had already done. But not quite; his heart beat so fast he was sure it would burst out of his chest before long, and his mind swirled with emotions he didn't know how to place. But he kept reminding himself that this was what he wanted, he wanted to feel John all around him, _all _of him –

'John! Please,' Sherlock almost sobbed. He felt John's lips quirk into a small smile against his, but John's heart went almost as fast as his, he knew. 'It's okay,' he whispered reassuringly. John nodded and took a deep breath. He pulled back and looked at Sherlock again, searching for approval in their position. All Sherlock did was a small nod of the head, but the sincerity in his eyes told John everything.

Sherlock closed his eyes and braced himself for the upcoming – and inevitable – pain. He focused of John's hands on his hips, softly sliding against his skin, gently exercising pressure with his fingertips. Sherlock's emotions were one giant mess and it unnerved him. Even as a little kid he had been able to keep everything under control, he'd been able to look at everything with emotional distance. It was essential, being a detective. John could not comprehend that; he continued to be affected by the death of people during a case and the difference in opinion between them could drive both of them absolutely mad. But now John understood exactly what he was going through, what he was feeling.

Sherlock groaned involuntarily as his body protested against the new experience. The pain he now felt was worse than before, but it was manageable; he still felt the pleasurable tingles from before... If he just gritted his teeth and focused on John's touch entirely –

Then suddenly, a jolt of electricity spread through him, numbing all his senses – at first. After the first shock cleared away, his senses seemed to have heightened; he was aware of every tingle, every touch from John, every kiss. John was everywhere.

'_John... _Oh, John!' he moaned, instinctively jerking his hips to John's. His hands shot forward and grabbed John's hips, his fingernails digging into John's skin. John grunted in pleasure and smiled, his mouth hungry for the taste of Sherlock's lips. He kissed Sherlock deeply and their tongues moved rhythmically, their bodies moved rhythmically, and Sherlock loved every second of it.

It was strange that he was usually so hyper-aware of everything, he always noticed something in the room he was in, but with John, it was different. When he was kissing him, or just lounging on the sofa with him, his head was filled with John and his happiness. A few months ago, he would have hated himself for what John had done to his emotions, but he didn't give a damn anymore. He felt as if John was a part of him, like an arm, which he really couldn't miss. No, not an arm, Sherlock thought. An arm I can miss. I cannot miss John.

'Sherlock...' John grunted and he softly bit Sherlock's lower lip. Sherlock's hands on his hip pressed even tighter into his skin, probably leaving slight bruises later. John didn't care; his beautiful boyfriend was below him, moaning, crying out his name and begging for more.

Sherlock could feel the pleasure building as John moved faster and pressed himself tighter against Sherlock. Both Sherlock's legs were wrapped around John's now, his hands pressed flat on John's back. John was kissing his neck, occasionally swiping his tongue across Sherlock's skin, salty with sweat, and Sherlock had his face pressed against John's shoulder as he felt the pleasure reaching a peak. 'Oh, John! God... _John_!' he cried out, clutching John's muscled upper back tightly.

Sherlock's cry sent John over the edge as well and he moaned Sherlock's name in his dark curls. His breathing was heavy, as was  
Sherlock's, and he collapsed on top of him in a tired heap. He nuzzled his nose in Sherlock's neck – which was covered in lovebites – and smiled, waiting for their breathing to slow down. Eventually, he rolled over to lie beside his boyfriend and grabbed his hand.  
'What did you think?' he asked, feeling slightly uncomfortable with the question. It had never been necessary to ask it, but with Sherlock, he needed to know.

It was silent for a long while and John started to panic. His head started to fill with "what if"s; what is Sherlock hadn't enjoyed it at all? What if he decided he'd rather be just friends, and break off their relationship? What if...

A soft whisper distracted him from his thoughts. 'It was perfect, John.'

John breathed a sigh of relief. 'Glad you liked it,' he whispered in his ear. 'I love you so much, Sherlock. You were so beautiful.'

Sherlock turned his head on the pillow and looked at him. John loved his pale green blue eyes; they could express any emotion flawlessly. Usually, they were cold and distant, but now he saw nothing but love and affection in them, and a true happiness. 'I love you, too, John,' he whispered back, his voice high and hoarse. He crawled closer and the doctor put his arms around him. Sherlock sighed, the warmth of his boyfriend surrounding him, his steady breath lulling him to sleep.

* * *

Sherlock sighed. John was away, drinking something with Lestrade, claiming his social life could not be neglected, even though he would probably not complain if Sherlock was to ask him to spend his life with him, and _only _him.

Sherlock grinned in delight at the ceiling; he was lying on the sofa in his pyjamas, his silky blue dressing gown wrapped around him. He was bored; lately, John as his boyfriend and some cases had been able to keep him occupied enough. But now, John was not in the apartment and all Sherlock could do was think about him. Not that he minded, of course – John was, after all, he thought with a dazed expression on his face (_God, I must look ridiculous_), the best thing that had happened to him in an excruciatingly long time.

He must admit that there had always been a certain (physical?) attraction to the doctor, since the moment Mike had introduced them at St. Bart's. He had not known what to do with it; he wasn't sure how to handle the tickling, light feeling in his lower abdomen – Sherlock lightly brushed said body part with his hand – or his increasingly frequent glances when John did... well, anything, really. He was now obviously frustrated with the fact that he had not seen it for what it really was; love. Sherlock snorted. How could he have known, anyway? It was not as if he had experienced before. There had been this light bulb-moment when he had seen John in the firelight one month ago. John had been looking at him with those wide, dark eyes – Sherlock's belly flared up at the memory, as the memory replayed itself vividly in his head – and Sherlock had thought he detected a spark in them. Without thinking, he had leant forward and brushed his lips against the shorter man's for the very first time. Sherlock closed his eyes and stopped trying to keep his body from reacting to his vivid thoughts because it wasn't working anyway.  
_  
God, _how did a touch as simple as that one kiss make him respond so heavily, and intensely? Sherlock exhaled, now recalling some other intimate moments with John. Their heated kiss on the desk, for example, or one of their many actions on the sofa he was currently draped over. Sherlock felt the heat rise to his face and the rest of his body, and tilted his head back. Last night... Jesus, last night had been glorious. Sherlock hadn't known before how close one could feel to another person – and if he did, he'd have thought kissing would come close enough.

By God, had he been wrong. The sheer feeling of actually being with John, really _with _him... it was impossible to describe. John's body pressed to his, following his every curve as if they were made for each other, the warm palm of John's hand on his chest, stroking down to his buttocks, his fingernails in his hips, the gentle tugging of his teeth on his skin, and – Sherlock had to keep himself from getting too caught up in his memory – his heavy breathing in his ear, moans and grunts forming his name, _his _name, Sherlock Holmes.

Bloody hell, it had been downright perfect. Suddenly, Sherlock was overwhelmed by a sense of impatience – when did John say he'd get home again? 221B was dull without him. Sherlock directed his gaze to the lifeless skull on the mantelpiece, grinning as if to say: 'High-functioning sociopath, my arse.' Sherlock raised an eyebrow at it. Interesting.

His feelings for John obviously weren't platonic – quite the opposite. He had never considered himself able to feel emotions like sentiment and love. Irrelevant as they were, they had proven to make quite an impact on him and his relationship with John.  
Sherlock groaned; what were John and Lestrade doing?

* * *

'About time,' Lestrade sniggered when John walked into the pub. John frowned and winced as he sat down next to the DI, a feeling of dread washing over him as he realised he knew.

'Time for what?' he asked, acting innocent and oblivious. Unconsciously, he bit his lip as the memory of the night before danced before his eyes.

'That you and our great detective had a shag,' Greg smirked. 'You had better, I had twenty quid on it.'  
John rolled his eyes. Bets – they had even placed bets. 'Who lost?'

'Hmm... Anderson and Jones. I suppose they just don't want to believe.' Lestrade shrugged and reached for his beer. 'Better tell them tomorrow,' he murmured with a smile.

'Great, now everyone will know. Just what we were looking for,' John sighed.

'So...' Lestrade whispered as he leant forward. 'How was it?'

John blinked. 'Sex with Sherlock?'

Lestrade frowned. 'Don't put it like that,' he shivered. 'But, basically, yeah.'

'Details?' John asked incredulously.

'Dear God, no.'

John laughed, suddenly feeling very comfortable, despite the topic. 'Okay, then. Well... odd, to begin with. After all, he _is _a man. But...' He blushed when he remembered Sherlock's muscles and the heated colour of pink underneath his beautiful pale skin. And _God_, his voice; the way he had shouted John's name, or moaned quietly in his ear. John shook his head. 'It was bloody amazing,' he told Lestrade.

Lestrade gaped at him, a slight smile on his face. 'You're smitten, John.'

John smiled. He realised what it must look like, him talking about Sherlock Holmes like that, heat rising to his face when he remembered the night before. He had found it sweet that Sherlock hadn't known exactly what to do at first. It satisfied him that there was something Sherlock didn't know, and he did.

'He is, too,' Lestrade added. 'I can see it, it's just plain obvious. He looks at you, John, and suddenly he doesn't look like the sociopath he claims he is.'

It wasn't as if John didn't already know, but it was still nice to hear. 'Half a year or so ago, I would never have thought about it,' he admitted.

'I would,' Lestrade chuckled. 'The first time he brought you to a crime scene. He never had colleagues, he always worked alone. The way you admired each other – yes, John, he admired you, too – I knew something more was going on between you. We all knew, we found it odd that you didn't.' Greg shook his head. He smirked again and looked at John. 'How was this morning?'  
John smiled back, recalling in every detail the way he had woken up in Sherlock's bed, completely naked, the sheets tangled between his legs. He had sighed when there was no warm body pressed tight to his, no breathing in his neck, no soft hands stroking him gently. Struggling to untangle himself from the white sheets, he had gotten up from the bed and dressed. He hoped Sherlock had made him breakfast again.

A strange but pleasant sight awaited him in the kitchen. Sherlock had been sitting in a chair, in nothing but one white sheet wrapped tightly around his oddly muscular body, a cup of coffee clutched in both hands. He had been staring at the wall opposite him absently, apparently deep in thought. He looked up, blushed and smiled when he saw John.

'Morning,' he said, and John thought he could detect a huskiness to his deep voice.

'Morning,' John greeted back. He let his eyes sweep across what was visible of Sherlock's body, a familiar feeling in his lower belly. He walked around the kitchen table and stopped behind Sherlock's chair. The detective put his cup down and John noticed he held his breath; his fingers trembled. John let his fingers slide down Sherlock's neck to his shoulders, creeping under the white sheet –

'Whoa, enough, Watson!' Lestrade exclaimed, covering his ears with his hands. John smirked. 'No details. Noted.'

Lestrade laughed. 'I wonder what he's doing now,' he mused.

* * *

Sherlock had woken up next to John, the sheets barely covering them. Sherlock's cheeks had flushed when he saw John's body, so deliciously soft and inviting. He had needed to do something to take his mind off devouring John right that instant. John, who looked so beautiful, lying on his stomach, his mouth slightly open.

He had softly kissed John's shoulder blade and moved out of the bed, pulling one of the sheets with him. He wrapped it around him and entered the kitchen, making himself some coffee.

He sat down on a kitchen chair and stared vacantly at the wall opposite him, occasionally sipping his coffee.

Well, that was interesting.  
_  
Seriously, Sherlock_, he told himself. _Are you going to treat that as an experiment?  
_  
Why not? It wasn't as if he _didn't _love John, or hadn't enjoyed the night. It was just that this part of the human nature had never made sense to him, and therefore he had never felt the need to explore it.

But everything was different with John. This average, middle-aged man was nothing special, or so he had thought when he had first met him.

Jesus, had he been wrong.

The ex-army doctor was everything but average. The way Sherlock's brain was to everyone else's, John's heart was to those of  
the rest of the world.

John was his heart. And he loved him so much, it almost hurt. It made him want to shout and scream at all those people who had called him heartless, emotionless... John clearly proved the opposite; his feelings for the ex-army doctor were obvious.  
He heard a scuffling from the door to their bedroom and looked up when he saw John walk around the corner. He felt the heat rise to his face as he realised that he was still wearing a sheet and that this was the man who'd seen him naked the night before.  
'Morning,' he said and he noticed that his voice had gone hoarse again.

'Morning,' John replied with a grin. John walked around the kitchen table and stopped behind his chair. Sherlock held his breath in anticipation and put down his coffee cup. He shivered when John's hands stroked his neck, slipping under the sheet. He breathed deeply, tilting his head backwards and leaning against John's chest. 'How's you night been?' he asked in a soft voice.

'It's been good,' John replied, lowering his head so he could whisper in Sherlock's ear. 'You were next to me. How could it have been anything but good?'

Sherlock chuckled and stood up from his chair. He took John in his arms, making sure his sheet would not fall off, and slowly walked forwards, pressing John to the counter. Searching for some dominance since his lack thereof the night before, he grinned and brushed his lips against John's, keeping his hands around John's wrists, placing his hands on the counter where they couldn't touch him. John stood on his toes, fighting for some dominance, but Sherlock didn't let him and John didn't mind. Slowly, Sherlock let go of his wrists and bit him softly in the lip, as if to tell him he better keep his hands there, or else... John obliged and Sherlock smirked, trailing his long, pale fingers over John's arms to his shoulders, along his neck to his cheeks, and he took John's head in his hands and kissed him fiercely, passionately. Without thinking, John removed his hands from the counter, intending to place them on Sherlock's waist, but Sherlock bit his lips again, a bit harder than before and John held his hands up in defeat, smiling slightly.

Minutes passed, and still they hadn't moved from the counter. John couldn't help but to reach around and grab a handful of Sherlock's buttocks, to which the detective gasped and broke the kiss. He looked into John's eyes to find a teasing sparkle in them and he smiled.

'I'm going to have a shower,' he muttered, grabbing John's wrist once more and removing the hand from his backside. He gave John one last kiss and walked out the kitchen, dropping his sheet before he moved around the corner.

John's decision was a fast one; as soon as he saw Sherlock's naked buttocks, heat spread through his body and he regretted his decision of dressing already. Hastily, he removed his clothing, throwing them on the kitchen table (his shirt was draped over the microscope and his jeans landed in the sink) and he dashed after his boyfriend. He could hear faint chuckling at the other side of the bathroom door and he realised he must have made an awful lot of noise. He didn't care though and opened the door – thankfully, Sherlock had left it open.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, completely naked, a teasing look in his eyes when he ran a hand through his dark curls.  
'Joining me?' he asked. _The voice, _John thought. _God, the voice..._

'Don't you use that voice on me, Holmes,' he growled as he burst forward, taking the detective in his arms and pressing him against the cool tiled wall of the bathroom. Sherlock shivered when the cold tiles made contact with his hot skin and hissed between his teeth; 'I'll use it whenever I want, _Watson_.'

'That's _Captain _Watson for you,' John ordered and he pushed Sherlock into the shower. He closed the shower curtain behind him and turned on the tap, immediately pouring water over both of them. Sherlock uttered a little cry as the water was cold in the beginning, but it warmed quite quickly and they were lost in the sight of each other. 'Captain Watson,' Sherlock repeated. His breathing came faster when he saw the drops of water slide down his skin, shimmering with the faint light of the bathroom behind them. His hands trailed the doctor's muscles and pressed him against the wall, kissing him again. John ran a hand through Sherlock's wet hair, loving how it stuck to his forehead. 'You look so hot, Sherlock,' John muttered between two kisses, as he looked at his tall, slightly muscular boyfriend.

Sherlock took a deep breath, hearing those words, formed from John's mouth with a voice that could match his own. Sherlock pressed himself to John again, almost tearing at his lips and throat, hot water still pouring on them with a suffocating heat – in a good way. John's hands trailed down Sherlock's back again, caressing the smooth curve of Sherlock's buttocks. Sherlock groaned in pleasure and smiled as he pulled back to look at the doctor.

'Captain John Hamish Watson. I love you.'

John smiled back and hugged the detective close, murmuring a few words in his ear.

'I love you, too, Sherlock. I love you too.'

* * *

**This was it then, dear readers! Well, unless you request a sequel ;) If that's really the case, then someone help with inspiration! Since I have a few ideas, but I won't use them in this sequel (should there be one ;D) because Otter and I are working on a big new piece which will (eventually) become the sequel to our main story "Sentiment". (Not that that one's finished yet...) But, if you have any ideas, please let me know!  
And of course, should you just have enjoyed this story, please review - I can never get enough of those. Please tell me what I could improve concerning the ahm.. heated interactions between Sherlock and John ;) I am not very comfortable with "right in the face-sex" as I have come to call it, lol :) So I hoped I was clear enough like this. Please, constructive criticism helps! Thank you all for reading, you are fantastic!**


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